The Boy Who Lived
by Lawrence Fitzroy
Summary: Cat Wither is just an eleven year old boy - except his parents call him Katy and a disagreeable man dressed all in grey appears on his doorstep one morning to deliver the news that he has a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Mostly OCs navigating magic and gender in the contemporary wizarding world (disregarding the entire plot of The Cursed Child, forgive me).
1. Chapter 1

"Wither, Cat."

The candles were no longer suspended but falling towards the flagstones, and their light too bright and the hush too still. He willed his feet forwards, willed them not to stumble, and sat clumsily on the stool.

The sea of bright faces swam in front of him, all the eyes glassy and luminous, before the hat fell down over his forehead to rest on the bridge of his nose.

"Hmmm," it whispered into his mind, and all he could smell was pungent old leather. "Another curious case of a Muggle-born wizard. I pity the likes of you, I really do."

His mind was roaring hot. He took a shaky breath, choking on the leather must, and willed it quiet.

"You're brilliant, very powerful. That much is clear. But all those murky depths…," the hat hissed. "Best you learn to plumb them. Better be…"

"RAVENCLAW!" bellowed the hat to the hall. Cat suppressed his flinch.

The stern lady in stiff green robes pulled the hat off his head and pointed him to one of the long tables. Kids of all ages were grinning at him, clapping, waving him over, but he couldn't see any space on the benches. He felt tears pricking at his eyelids.

"Cat," someone tugged on his sleeve.

He recognised her from the train, or maybe from the expectant throng outside the Great Hall, though he'd been too sick with nerves to meet anyone's eyes.

She scooted up the bench, "Sit here."

"Thanks," he whispered.

Disembodied hands clapped him on the shoulder as he sat down, and voices shouted congratulations. He mustered a wan smile in no direction in particular. The hat keep shouting episodically, interspersed with roars and cheers.

"A speech, then food is what they tell me," his neighbour muttered into his ear. "Think we could all use something to eat. Don't know about you, but at this point I would eat a troll. Raw."

He managed a chuckle that got stuck in his throat.

"I'm Amy."

He met Amy's eyes, which were definitely not a normal colour. "Cat. Thanks for rescuing me."

"Not a problem," she knocked his elbow.

A tall woman of indeterminable age with long black hair, so sleek it was almost reflective, stood at the podium. Cat found himself, absurdly, thinking of pictures of Cher from her Cher & Sonny Show days. The woman clapped her hands above her head, causing the sleeves of her robes to fall down her arms and reveal twisting creatures tattooed down her forearms. The sound of her clap thundered off the walls.

"Speeches are wasted on the hungry," she called. "Instead, let us feast!"

The applause was cacophonous and the tables creaked, bowing under the weight of silver platters, steaming tureens and spindly ornamented racks of plates.

"Fuck me," Cat whispered. Amy snorted.

Some pleasant time passed with jugs of gravy and the cracking of pie crusts. A beautiful boy with yellow eyes spiked Cat's drink with something blood-red, muttering that he looked peaky. Amy stole a sip and grinned appreciatively. He warmed, slowly, as he devoured flaking pastries filled with unfamiliar mince.

"Pudding." "Pudding." "Sugar!" Hoarse whispers proceeded a rippling shimmer that spread down the long tables, as silver plates and towers of crumbs disappeared, replaced by gold and swirls of frosting. Everyone armed themselves with forks and dove towards the cake stands.

Amy laughed, a peal that glittered. "I didn't pace myself. Fuck's sake."

Cat grinned. "Neither."

The yellow-eyed boy pushed a platter towards them. "If you eat anything else ever again, you still can't miss these. First banquet speciality."

They were crumbly yellow tarts, remarkable only for their unassuming presentation in the middle of all the ornate sugar work and general splendour. Amy took a deep breath and a bite. Her eyes flickered closed.

"Cat, you have to. Thanks, man," but the yellow-eyed boy had already turned back to his friends.

It melted, sharp and sweet with something burnt lingering underneath the citrus. Cat swallowed, overcome by the surreal. The blazing candle-light, the dark shadows and robes, the cacophony of laughter and unknown tongues and accents, the tug of magic pulling at his gut, seeping from every stone of the building – it frightened him. It felt feverish, impossible, the kind of incandescent that spelled inevitable loss.

"The best thing I've ever tasted," he told Amy. The yellow-eyed boy caught his eye and nodded.

And then the plates disappeared, and the Cher-looking lady stood again.

"Speeches are also wasted on the well-glutted, I fear. Instead, my stuffed students, permit me some brief remarks. As most of you should well know by now, the Forest remains Forbidden. As is any sneaking, carousing or adventuring after dark. The castle continues to house magicks and artefacts potentially both enlightening and dangerous to your impressionable minds – I advise caution. Keep your wits about you. We will have need of them!

"Now, first-years, your perfects will guide you to your rooms. Thank you for sharing this fine meal with us all."

A smiling girl stood at Cat and Amy's table. "Get over here, Ravenclaw first-years."

Cat and Amy drained their cups and gracelessly clambered over the benches, joining the huddle of sated children.

"I'm Grace, your prefect," the girl said. Cat couldn't help himself – his eyes raked across her cheek and neck, where a puce vine of a birthmark writhed. Her hair was wrapped in blue and bronze and her eyes were close to indigo. He could feel the power flowing off her. It felt like a breeze, and tasted green. She caught his eyes and he could swear she winked. "Follow me. We're stopping by the infirmary before you get to see our tower – Madame Sorrell wants to make sure none of you will be succumbing to poxes or lurgies."

She turned and swept out the hall, trailing sated and stumbling first-years.

After the fifth or maybe tenth turn, Cat gave up on trying to remember their route. The hallways reeked with magic – he felt assailed by each tapestry, each suit of armour, even the occasional torch bracket. Sconce, he thought. The stones were babbling. He sensed the castle was celebrating too, following the first-years' footsteps, excited to take their measure.

The infirmary was hearth-warm, with enormous windows gaping out into the night. Madame Sorrel was a young women with the long fingers of a pianist and a broad smile. She called them into her office, one by one. Cat waited, gazing out the window, as the nurse called for Athinum and Greenlop and Percival and Winsome and –

"Wither."

Cat realised he was shaking as he stepped through the door.

Madame Sorrell looked up from her notes, and tsked, her forehead knitting in concern. Cat noticed she had no eyebrows, and wondered how he'd missed that before.

"Sit." Cat sat. "Do you mind if I touch your head?" she asked gently.

Cat shook his head, not trusting himself to speak. She ran her fingers across his crown, his brow, his temples, behind his ears.

"Muggle-born, I take it?" Cat nodded.

"It's a wonder, really it is." She patted his shoulders and moved back behind her desk, steepling her fingers against its top.

"Forgive me asking, but what was the last thing your parents said to you?"

"See you at Christmas, K-k-katie," Cat choked on it.

She hummed sympathetically. "I'll need to see you tomorrow. If anyone asks, it's for dragon pox immunisations. Fairly common requirement for Muggle-born first years.

"But, in truth, Wither, it's because we have a lot to do together. My brief examination has made clear that you've spent the last five years, minimum, devoting and developing a significant amount of your rather extraordinary magical abilities towards suppressing puberty. It's why you're so small for your age, and why you probably feel tired all the time. You've been holding up a heavy, heavy weight all by yourself for a long time.

"I can teach you to how to use magic, talismans, plants and potions to do some of the heavy lifting for you, so that you can free your powers up. Your body and talents are yours to nourish as you see fit. You're a powerful, resilient young man I want to see grow and flourish. How does that sound?"

Cat gazed at her, dumbfounded. She smiled, slow and warm.

"There's so much in store for you, son. I'm glad to have met you." She knelt and rummaged in her desk.

"Take this," she tossed a small piece of flint to him. It radiated warmth in Cat's hands. "It's rather generic, but should lift the load some and let you properly metabolise that lovely dinner. Keep it with you – in your pocket or under your pillow."

She stood and clasped his shoulders, closing her eyes and whispering something. Cat gasped as the flint flared hot. Madame Sorrell lifted her hands from his shoulders and something came with. He felt like floating. His chest was light, his collar-bones loose.

She grinned, "Remarkable. Glad to have freed you up some. Come see me tomorrow after dinner. Off you go."

Grace gave him a sharp look as he walked out the office. Amy gave him a quick hug.

"That's us done here – to the tower, my dear first-years." Grace fell in step with him as they walked through more interminable corridors and up staircase after staircase. "You burn very hot, Wither. Glad we have you with us."

"Thanks?"

"I don't know what Sweet Sorrell did, but I'm glad she did it. You're burning even clearer now – very blue. I look forward to seeing more of you."

She stopped in front of non-descript door with a small bronze door-knocker shaped like a bird of prey. "We're at the top of South Wing of the castle – nineteenth floor from lake elevation, seventh from the grounds. This door is the way into our tower. To gain entrance, you must satisfactorily answer its question. Simple enough, in theory."

The gold bird rustled its feathers, clinking quietly, and tilted its head. "From you, Grace, I only want to know – are they good eggs?"

She ran a finger over its head, "As you are well aware, dear one, it's all in the hatching."

The door swung open to reveal – more stairs. A collective groan. Grace laughed and said, "Think of your calves, your glutes, little ones!" They followed her round and round, up and up, past windows slitted, stained-glass, wide-open, black and jewelled with the night sky, until they came up in the middle of wide round room thick with carpets and the sweet smoke of burning hearths at each compass point. Everywhere were coffee tables and stack of books and shelves and maps and windows and lounging students. The yellow-eyed boy was sunk in an armchair, face buried in a book. To the right of one of the fireplaces was the start of another spiral staircase.

"Up there," Grace pointed to the staircase, "are your rooms. They're in no particular order – you find yours when you come to your nameplate. Your belongings are already there, for which we give thanks to our fine house-elves and their great and mysterious magic. Bathrooms are shared between every two or so rooms.

"Welcome to your home. There are kettles on the fire if you want tea or cocoa before bed, packs of cards on the tables, books aplenty. I'll be up for the next hour or so if you have any questions and I'll see you tomorrow bright and early to lead you to breakfast." She walked off to the East fire, snagging a mug off a rack on the wall.

Amy turned to Cat, "C'mon, let's find our beds. I'm ready to pass out." They followed the straggling pack of other first-years up the stairs, everyone peering at the nameplates in the torch-light. The group slowly thinned as people found their names. Almost a hundred stairs up, Amy found herself – _Amarelia Thyme_ – and turned to give Cat a hug. "I'm so glad to have met you. See you tomorrow. Hope you don't have much further to go."

"Same, Amy. See you. It'll be fine – I'll, uh, just think of my ass." She grinned at him, and stepped into her room. Cat caught a glimpse of bare stone flickering with orange and blue-sheeted and -canopied bed before the door rasped closed behind her.

Cat kept going, up and up past unfamiliar names on unfamiliar doors as his legs burned, until he saw a hatch door set in the ceiling in front of him and knew he'd reached the top of the tower. He sighed, starting to worry it had all been a mistake. Then he noticed the nameplate set on the hatch – _Cat Wither. _He pushed up and walked into a perfectly round room with a four-poster bed pushed against a wall, his luggage arranged at its foot. There was a skylight set into the ceiling, four windows spaced equidistant, and a black stove in the centre of the floor, its pipe extending out the roof.

Cat shucked off his shoes and threw himself on the bed, gazing up into the sky. His heart was hammering and he let it beat itself slower and slower, until his ears began to prick at the whoosh of wind around the tower top and ping of first rain drops on the glass above his head. He slowly became aware of a feeling against his thigh – a warmth, or a prickling? The traces and tastes of magic are hard to describe – and remembered the flint he'd cradled in his hands and slipped into his pocket in Madame Sorrell's office.

He pulled it out, marvelling at its potency, all the flecks of charm and resonancy dappling its surface and threading through its mass. He pulled his awareness through it, like a magnet along an iron bar, trying to trace its substance. It felt curiously awake – Cat reminded himself never to underestimate rocks.

He could feel its connection to him, but couldn't quite follow what it was doing or how. It felt trustworthy, though, so he slid it under his pillow and lost himself to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

A non-descript man in grey suit had turned up at their front door one blustering, foreboding Saturday morning, too early for post or coffee. Cat had been perched on the sloping roof outside his window, crunching on an apple, and saw him coming. He'd started edging backwards – people who noticed him on the roof tended to shout or tell his parents – but the man had locked eyes with him and winked. Something acrid, almost sulphurous, reeked from his sharp-cornered frame. Cat felt scared all of a sudden.

_Hurry inside, Cat – I need to talk to you and your parents,_ whispered a silvery voice into his ear. He dove inside his window, heart racing, just as the doorbell chimed.

Cat struggled into a jumper and raced downstairs. He pulled open the door and stood on the lintel, forcing the grey man to take a step back. There were wrinkles gouged around eyes set deep behind his brows.

"Who are you?"

"Someone like you, little witch." He laughed at Cat's face. "Are your parents coming? I need to explain all this to them too."

Cat's dad rounded the corner, wrapped in a garish bathrobe. "Ah, Mr. Prenderghastly. Do come in. Viv's just putting the kettle on." Cat's jaw fell open.

Soon enough, they were squeezed around the kitchen table. The grey man had taken three spoons of sugar in his tea and no milk. Cat had his feet tucked under the old dog, trying to keep his mouth shut.

"Thank you for this lovely cuppa, Mr. and Mrs. Wither," he began. Cat's mum beamed, a strange sight. "As you know, I'm here because your talented daughter has been offered a place at a boarding school in Scotland, and I need to get all the paperwork in order."

He produced two envelopes – one white, one purple – from his jacket's inner pocket. Cat caught a flash of crimson lining. The grey man passed the purple envelope to Cat, who dropped it on the table like it burned, and placed the white in front of his parents.

"Most of the students are on the academy's books from birth, but on rare occasion they accept exceptional young people whose abilities come to their attention. They have a rather more _holistic _approach than other educational institutions – they are looking for well-rounded," he rolled the r, "well-en_dowed _young people, with capacities far beyond those of an ordinary pupil.

"Now, I know your daughter has been facing difficulties at school, but we've believe that's due to the failings of, ah, conventional educational techniques. Simply put, Cat has been taught the wrong things the wrong way. We are confident that in the right setting, she will _excel._"

He pushed the white envelope towards Cat's parents, and his mother obliging opened it. She and his father scanned its contents under their watchful gaze.

"This sounds wonderful, Mr. Prenderghastly," Cat's mum said, sickly and saccharine. "We've been having such a hard time finding something that's the right, ah, fit for her. All this empowerment business sounds like just what she needs. A lot like the girls' schools we've been looking into, right, John?"

"Which reminds me," said Cat's dad. "The all-important question – what's it gonna cost us? We had to rule out all those schools because it was just too dear."

The grey man's eyes widened innocently. "Nothing at all! We'd like to offer your daughter a full scholarship, including a generous stipend to cover uniform, equipment and living expenses. She is exactly the kind of student the academy is looking for, and we would hate for cost to stand in the way of her development into – a truly extraordinary individual."

Cat could swear his mother's eyes got misty. "What an offer! We'd be fools to say no."

"Where do we sign?" said his father. Cat stared at his parents in disbelief.

"Sorry to interrupt," he said, "but, before you sign my bloody life away—"

"Catherine!" his mum shouted.

"Can I ask Mr. Ghastly a couple questions? Like, what's this academy called?"

"Hogwarts," replied the grey man, mildly. Cat felt warmth leech out of the room.

"Sounds made-up. And this Hogfarts' innovative teaching methods are what, exactly? You hit us? Talk about lean-in feminism? Juggling? Personality tests?"

"None of the above. Unusual subjects – a focus on textuality and, ah, materiality – we have a number of student greenhouses, for example, where lessons are conducted… Your letter should clarify all this considerably."

Cat glared at the letter, and looked back at the grey man. "What qualifications will this school get me? What GCSEs and A-levels have you got? Is it sixth-form too? Do your students go to uni or start apprenticeships?"

"None of those awful standardised tests, I'm happy to say. Yes to sixth-form – students graduate at age 18, well prepared for successful careers in an infinite variety of intriguing sectors across all 10 continents. Many students do indeed go on to further education in fields of their choice. Hogwarts is considered highly by employers and institutions – though," the grey man sneered, "I am sympathetic to the fact that an eleven year old might not be aware of its prestige."

"You can—"

"Cat, your attitude amazes me," he interrupted. "It is not about what Hogwarts will do or get for you. The school is not designed to generate for you some generic curriculum vitae scattered with the first five or so letters of the alphabet and convey you unto an equally generic university course and then, if you are lucky, a glassy office with glassy-eyed colleagues and the latest in ergonomic desk chairs. It is, instead, about what knowledge, what insight, what new perspective," he chipped out the word, "you may, if you apply your powers, one day take from Hogwarts into the world. You, and the world, will be changed. What more could any young person ask for?"

"Well said, Mister," said Cat's dad.

"Dad, are you fucking kidding? You own one of those chairs_._ This man just made fun of your _entire life. _Are you really—?"

"Young lady! To your room!" yelled his mum. Cat left the letter behind.

Cat watched the grey man leave ten minutes later, tucking white envelope into crimson-lined jacket. At the gate, the man turned and waved to him, face impassive. Cat gave him the finger.

His dad sidled into his room later, and sat on the foot of the bed, rubbing his bristly cheeks.

"Didn't I teach you about gift-horses, Kitty?"

"Dad, there's a dumb saying for everything. Anything too good to be true probably is, right?"

"You're too sharp for your own good, half pint," he said, sadly. "This school sounds like just what you need."

"So you signed."

"Of course. Like your mother said, we'd be fools not to. Full scholarship… You don't know how lucky you are." He pulled the purple envelope out of his bathrobe pocket. "You should open this and read some. Really can't see why you're so dead set against it. It's co-ed, at the very least. Thought you'd be over the moon, given the fuss you were kicking up about St. Agatha's all summer."

Cat stared at the ground. His dad sighed and left the letter on the foot of the bed.

_Little witch,_ thought Cat. _What the hell did that accountant mean? _And he prayed with all the fervour he could muster, as he did at least ten times every day, for the floor to open up and swallow him whole so he wouldn't have to— He took a shuddering breath. He threw the letter at the wall. It made an unsatisfying noise.

He opened the envelope. The pages inside had the pulpy texture of handmade paper and were handwritten in barely decipherable calligraphic scripts.

_Dear Cat Wither, _the first page began.

_I would like to offer you a place at Hogwarts' School for Witchcraft and Wizardry. _Cat blinked, not sure he'd read the sentence right.

_I would like to offer you a place at Hogwarts' School for Witchcraft and Wizardry. _

_This offer may come as a shock to you, given you have been raised in a non-magic household. Perhaps, like some in your situation, you have always suspected you were different – a little strange, out-of-place, somehow unlike other children your age. Perhaps you did not. Rest assured I am certain of your magical talents. _

_Hogwarts is one of the oldest and most prestigious schools in the magical world. I will not bore you with the details, simply encourage you to pick up a copy of _Hogwarts: A History _when you buy your school supplies (details enclosed). At Hogwarts, we train young magicians in various sorcerous disciplines – Charms, Potions, Transfiguration, Defence Against the Dark Arts, to name a few. Our aim is to impart to our students control over their innate abilities so that they may leave our halls capable and self-aware, able to use their powers wisely. _

_But I hope you will learn much more than how to use magic during your time at Hogwarts. As I am sure you are already aware, there is much more to life than lessons. Here, you will be among other gifted folk who, like you, alongside you, will be grappling with the immediacy, the agony, the ecstasy that makes adolescence the most potent potion of them all. Here, you may meet people like and unlike yourself – powerful, uncertain, full of passion, doubt and various vigours and humours, from many different walks of life, perhaps even planes of existence. Though we have many excellent and esteemed professors (and I risk sounding trite), your greatest teachers will inevitably be your fellows. I fervently believe Hogwarts' truest purpose is to impart to our students the fullness and richness of the ineffable quandary we call life, an enchantment so exquisite we magicians can only wonder. _

_And, of course, your classes will prepare you for your Ordinary Wizarding Levels (O.W.L.s) and Nastily Exhausting Wizarding Tests (N.E.W.T.s). The magical world is, unfortunately, not in the least exempt from the post-enlightenment obsession with quantifiable and comparative data, measurable outcomes, and other such mushroom compost. At least, I remind myself, we approached the naming of our standardised tests with some humour. Hogwarts enrols students at age 11 and teaches them for seven years, casting them out into the wider world around their 18__th__ birthdays. O.W.L.s are sat in your fifth year at Hogwarts and N.E.W.T.s in your seventh. My apologies for the silliness of that sentence. Would that I could recommend you sit on neither creature._

_The school year begins on the 1__st__ of September. If you decide to attend, you will need to purchase school supplies sometime before the summer is out and board the Hogwarts Express (ticket also enclosed) from King's Cross Station. Once you arrive at Hogwarts, you will be sorted in one of our four 'Houses' – Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff and Slytherin, named after our four founders – and roundly oriented to our castle, grounds and schedule of classes and activities. _

_I know that you are likely feeling overwhelmed and full of doubt after this veritable deluge of information. You may be wondering if this is a prank. I propose an ingeniously simple test. Ask yourself what you lose in believing, perhaps only momentarily, in your having yet untapped powers? As an allegedly accomplished wizard, fast approaching an age some might consider decrepit, I try to ask myself this question every day. Cat, there is simply no point in moving through life doubting your—and the world's—capacity to produce the extraordinary. There is nothing more fundamental to life than magic. You have felt it in things growing, things cherished, things lost and found again, in change and in stillness, and in yourself—as have your family members, though they lack your affinity for magic's currents. _

_I recommend three further tests, should you still find yourself overcome with trepidation, even after my prose. First, travel to Diagon Alley to purchase your robes, equipment and books. There, you will find 'proof' should you need it – of magic, of the magical world, of magicians. However, this excursion may still leave you in doubt of your own abilities. So, second, write me. A letter addressed to 'Hogwarts Headmaster' will find its way to my desk. Ask of me anything or tell me whatever weighs on you and I will do my utmost to respond in a timely and useful manner. And third, sit with yourself as often and for as long as you are able. Put yourself somewhere quiet, close your eyes, and listen to your heart beat and your breath move. It is both the most simple and arduous magic, and will tell you all you need to know._

Cat's hands shook a little as he turned the page.

_Given the curiousness of this letter, I can understand if you also feeling preoccupied by the question of disclosure to your family and friends. You may have already guessed that your family has been placed under a very vague enchantment, such that they believe Hogwarts to be some top-notch boarding school suitable for your academic needs and interests and offering you a full scholarship. Hopefully they feel appropriately enthused about such a generous offer. Should you show them this letter, it will probably appear to them to be a boiler-plate welcome letter from this fictive school – I say probably, because it is possible you could accidentally or intentionally disrupt this enchantment. If your family and family read this letter, as you read it, I cannot predict what their reaction might be. _

_Non-magical folk are known, in the wizarding world, as 'Muggles.' The general rule, where Muggles are concerned, is secrecy. This is intended to protect magical folk from persecution, unwanted scrutiny and general bother and, in a round-about fashion, protect Muggles from magical meddling in turn. However, by virtue of being your progenitors, your family has already been subjected to thorough magical meddling in the attempt to gain you entrance into the wizarding world without significant hardship to yourself or others. As such, you may choose to reveal to them as much of the wizarding world as you see fit, in the manner and at the time that suits you best. Should you wish to 'come out' as a magician, as it were, I offer my full support. For example, I could arrange a visit or magical demonstration for your parents' benefits sometime during the next month. But if you want time to digest and decide on a course of action, this is yours to take. I know this may seem like a weighty decision to be placed on your young shoulders. But what is it to be young if not to walk that precarious line between secrecy and vulnerability. Ultimately, you know your family best. Your relationships to them are your own. Your abilities and your future are your own._

_I hope, at the very least, I have not bored you. I wish you luck in the coming months, envy your first encounters with our world, and look forward to seeing you at Hogwarts._

_Yours,_

_Hecuba Hall  
Headmaster_

Cat flipped the page back over, and started again from the beginning. _Dear Cat Wither, I would like to offer you a place at Hogwarts'—_

When he reached _Yours, Hecuba Hall_ for the second time, he closed his eyes. But it wouldn't settle, wouldn't sink in. His brain teamed and milled and squirmed. He placed the page ever-so-gently by his side, uncovering a maroon ticket (HOGWARTS EXPRESS, Platform 9¾, King's Cross Station) lying on top of a second page headed:

_Required Items for First-Year Students_

_Uniform – first year students will require:  
Three Sets of Plain Work Robes (Black)  
One Plain Pointed Hat (Black) for day wear  
One Pair of Protective Gloves (dragon hide or similar)  
One Winter Cloak (Black, silver fastenings)  
Please note that all student's clothes should carry name-tags at all times. _

_Course books – all students should have a copy of each of the following:  
_The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1_ by Miranda Goshawk  
_A History of Magic_ by Bathilda Bagshot  
_Magical Theory_ by Adalbert Waffling  
_A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration_ by Emeric Switch  
_One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi _by Phyllida Spore  
_Magical Drafts and Potions_ by Arsenius Jigger  
_Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_ by Newt Scamander  
_The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection_ by Quentin Trimble_

_Other Equipment:  
1 Wand  
1 Cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)  
1 set of glass or crystal phials  
1 telescope  
1 set of brass scales_

_Students may also bring an Owl OR a Cat OR a Toad _

_PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST YEARS ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICKS_

_Students living in London and surrounding areas are recommended to visit _Diagon Alley _to purchase these items to specification. _Diagon Alley _can accessed via the Floo Network, licensed Portkeys and the Knight Bus. For entrance from Muggle London, exit _Bank Station _(accessible via _Central, DLR, Northern _and_ Waterloo & City_ lines), walk down _Cheapside, _take a right on _Gutter Lane, _walk into _The Leaky Cauldron _(a famous, albeit dilapidated half-way public house invisible to Muggles, neighbouring a forever busy up-market café and a forever deserted up-market bar), and tell Tom, the bartender, that you're a new Hogwarts student in need of assistance. You'll likely get a butterbeer and some questionable retail recommendations into the bargain. If you require accompaniment, please make this request in a letter addressed to _"New Student Chaperone Service, Diagon Alley, London" _and we will endeavour to make arrangements within 13 relevant days. _

The third and final page glimmered with gold embossed text. It began:

_GRINGOTTS BANK_

_Cat Wither is entitled to Hogwarts first-year student stipend of 88 Galleons. This is calculated to be an ample sum for the purchase of all required school supplies, although some items may have to be acquired second-hand._

_Please present this letter to one of the Gringotts Goblins, who will assist you in converting this sum into useful change and opening a vault, should you so desire._

_Please address any requests for additional funds to Hogwarts' Busar._

Cat reunited the pages and carefully slid them back inside their envelope. He gave up on trying to make any of it make sense, and went downstairs to make some lunch instead.


	3. Chapter 3

"I have to go buy school supplies," Cat told his parents over lunch.

"What a change of heart," his mother said, eyes flashing.

"I know, I know, mum. That man just rubbed me the wrong way. I didn't get why you were so comfortable with him. He seemed – creepy. I dunno."

"It's alright, honey. Bygones and that," said his dad. "When do you want to go?"

"Soon. I was wondering if could go myself," said Cat carefully. "It's this one bookstore near Bank station, basically, and the letter had directions. That ok?"

"Honey, you know how I feel about you taking the tube by yourself," said his mum.

"Let's see your letter, Kitty," said his dad.

Cat brought it down after he'd cleared up the dishes. Thinking of Hecuba Hall's words, he kept his face very flat and tried not to feel anything significant. He couldn't help shuddering as he passed it over.

"Nice paper," said his dad appreciatively as he eased the letter out the envelope. An image of the grey man's tightly controlled face rose unbidden in Cat's mind eye, and he tucked his hands carefully under his thighs.

"'Dear Catherine Wither,'" his dad read, "'I would like to offer you a place at Hogwarts' Academy for Alternative Secondary Education.'" He paused, blinking a little. Cat held his breath. "Wow, it's won a lot of awards." Cat's mum leaned over. "And what amazing facilities – _three _greenhouses, like the guy said, and state-of-the-art science labs, 'newly refurbished' with fume hoods it says, language labs too, and weekly private tutorials. Lots of provisions for kids with learning difficulties. Looks like they really know their stuff." He looked at Cat and grinned, "I can see why you changed your tune, pet."

Cat's mum flicked through the other pages. "The required items are straight-forward enough – uniform, some textbooks, protractors and a fancy calculator," she turned to the last page, whose embossed gold text winked cheekily at Cat. She gasped, "The stipend! But, Katie, it won't be in our account for another couple weeks so we'll have to wait on the shopping. And I'm going with you to make sure you get the _proper _uniform in the _right _size. It wouldn't do for you to turn up in some baggy jumper five sizes too big for you after they've been so generous." Cat's dad looked over her shoulder and whistled appreciatively. Cat wondering what sum they were seeing, but didn't risk asking.

"Ok, mum," he said.

"Give us a kiss, honey," she said, sliding the letter back into its lurid envelope. "We're so proud of you." Cat gave her a tight hug and a kiss on her cheek, and another on his dad's shoulder. He stuffed the envelope into his pocket and made for the stairs.

"I'm gonna write them a thank-you letter, ok?"

"Great idea, Kitty. Let me know if you need someone to proof it."

Cat stared at the blank sheet of paper on his desk.

_Dear Hecuba Hall, _he began. He pulled out his letter to check the spelling – it didn't look right in his handwriting. It was. He rested his forehead on the table.

_Thank you for your letter. It was very interesting to read but didn't really make this news any easier for me to __take in__ process. There is so much I don't understand and I have so many questions I don't know where to begin. _

_For now, I'll just ask two. Can you please tell me who was the man dressed all in grey who delivered this letter to me and another to my parents? He seemed danger— _Cat scratched it out, wrote _cold, _and then crossed out the whole sentence. He didn't know how to explain the icy energy that had oozed off the man. _He seemed danger cold.__ And (sorry if this sounds silly) can you please advise how I'm supposed to explain the appearance of an owl OR a cat OR a toad to my parents?_

_Also thank you for your advice, although I haven't had any time to 'sit with myself' yet. I'm planning to sneak out to Diagon, _he paused to check the spelling against the shopping list, _Alley while my parents are at work. I'm nervous but excited, I think._

_I hope this letter reaches you and that I hear from you soon. If you have the time, I would like to hear more about what magic is like. _He thought for a moment, and crossed out the second _like, _then _is, _and carefully wrote _entails._

_Best regards,_

_Cat Wither_

He considered rewriting the whole thing, looking at all his crossing-outs, but gave it up for lost. He suspected if he started again he wouldn't be able to finish. He folded the page up and grabbed an envelope and a stamp from a drawer downstairs.

"Mum, dad," he yelled upstairs, "I'm going to run and post this. I got a stamp."

"Last collection in twenty, hun. Be quick! You got the address?" his mum shouted down.

"Yeah," he replied, and looked at the blank envelope.He scribbled _Hecuba Hall, Headmaster, Hogwarts_ across the front. Feeling dismally certain it would be returned, he added his name and home address in the top left hand corner, and raced out the door for the nearest post box.


	4. Chapter 4

The following day was the slowest Sunday Cat had ever had the misfortune to live through. He hoovered and mopped the whole house as his parents argued bitterly about whether his mum should apply for a secondment out in West London, scheming all the while about how to get to Diagon Alley. Eventually his mum disappeared upstairs for a 'nap' and his father left for the pub, leaving dirty footprints across the drying hallway.

Peaceful in the quiet, Cat sat by the kitchen window with the all the mugs arrayed across the table in front of him, the afternoon light picking out each handle and casting glowing shadows across the floor. He was using baking powder, a basin of hot water and an old toothbrush on the coffee and tea stains when he heard the clatter of the letterbox closing and the soft thud of an envelope hitting the floor. The old dog looked up, startled out of his reverie.

_Cat Wither, _read the envelope. There was no stamp. Cat opened the door. There was no postman in sight, only birds drifting lazily on the afternoon air. Sparrows shrilled and chittered from the eaves.

He sat on the doorstep to read, squinting against the sun.

_Dear Cat,_

_I was so glad to hear from you! You wouldn't believe how few students take me up on my offer to correspond. _

_In response to your first question, judging from your description, the man who delivered your letters was Malcolm Nessier. He is an employee of the Ministry of Magic – yes, we have a Ministry of Magic. Properly addressing that fact probably warrants a letter of its own. Nessier is one of the higher-ups in the Department of Magical Education, a relatively new Department created during a recent period of major social upheaval in our world, and an adept magician with a peculiar and highly developed sensitivity for notions, concepts and social constructs. This means memory and confusion charms come easy to him – I remember him from my school days as a precocious young boy who became infamous for inventing jinxes that mixed up right/left and up/down. Entire classes got lost within the castle's labyrinthine corridors, unpopular teachers couldn't find their way out of the staffroom, bullies were found crawling up stairs on their hands-and-knees, eyes squeezed shut, muttering 'I'm not falling, I'm not falling. ' I myself ended up under the influence of one of Nessier's spells after an acrimonious Quidditch match and explored more of the Hogwarts' Dungeons than I'd ever intended. Eventually Professor McGonagall, the Headmaster at the time, tracked Nessier down and, with his assistance, crafted and publicised counter-charms. _

_Forgive my anecdotes! I say all this to explain Nessier's 'sensitivity.' It made him an obvious candidate for his Department and for the job of enchanting Muggles parents. It's not an easy job, in the sense that parents, Muggle or magical, wilfully shape their child's lives. Adults responsible for their children's welfare and future prospects struggle against surrendering their child unto the unknown. Nessier has to quiet this instinctual struggle using his gifts of persuasion. I'm sure he has as many crises of faith as the next confidence man._

_The final note of interest about Nessier is that his power is less potent at a distance. Which is why he makes a habit of hand-delivering his charmed letters. In proximity to others, he can convince most anyone of anything – it's in his voice and presence. Further away, he has to make use of less subtle enchantments, planting specific ideas, memories and suggestions – or removing them. This kind of prescriptive magic leaves traces. By the looks of your letter, you managed to sustain suspicion/doubt about Nessier. I'm guessing you may be immune to his particular charms, his powers of suggestion. It certainty makes me curious, and look forward to meeting you in person._

_As for your cat OR toad OR owl, I'm afraid the Department of Education's enchanted letters did not include an ensorcelled sub-clause that would make such a creature appear to your parents to be, say, a set of compasses. Although now I think of it, I should propose that at the next committee meeting. If you're desperate for a pet (which I would understand), I presume a toad would be easy enough to hide for a few weeks. But in my experience, the best familiars come to you. As is so disappointingly often the case, my best advice is: patience. _

_I wish you the best of luck on your illicit shopping expedition. Do be careful on the underground – just last week I heard one of the Seven Sisters had been spotted near Elephant & Castle. _

_Yours,_

_H.H.  
H._


	5. Chapter 5

His mum dropped him off at his aunt's the next morning, en route to a locum shift in Haringey. Finsbury Park was warm and sweet, a little hushed in the peace of the morning, even as commuters hurried around.

His aunt gave his mum a brisk kiss to the cheek and a plastic container of leftover fried rice, and she was off to another bus with a wave and a "Be good, Katy. Make sure she does some practice, Han."

Cat tried not to watch the clock as Hannah bustled around. He helped her hang laundry and he and his cousins played their usual game of avoiding further chores by playing involved games of football with made-up rules. They made themselves sandwiches and ate them while watching make-up tutorial videos, then had a desultory game of hide-and-seek that ended in Hannah shouting at them for tracking dirt everywhere.

At 3 o'clock, Hannah walked him to the bus station and watched him onto the bus. He waved at her through the window and got off at the next stop. He walked down into the belly of the underground and waded through the sea of commuters, Piccadilly line to Central to Bank. He emerged into afternoon sun, blinking and sweaty.

He had the directions memorised (Cheapside, Gutter Lane, Leaky Cauldron, ask for Tom). Bank was swarming with suits. He had to wait at every light and cross the roads with his shoulders brushing the elbows of bandy legged business men and tourists who walked too slowly. Everything was glittering grey, suits and stone buildings alike. Gutter Lane was a tiny passage carved between monolithic buildings.

His eyes slid past the Leaky Cauldron onto the heaving glass-fronted coffee shop. He looked back to his left, and his eyes slid over to the deserted glass-fronted bar. Cat carefully walked past the bar and stopped before the coffee shop, took a deep breath, and turned to look directly between them.

It was like being punched in the face. The pub's sign, shaped like a steaming cauldron, rattled above his head. The dirty windows winked into existence. Peering, Cat could see a deep, cavernous room, wood-beamed and full of shadowy figures. He could smell stale ale, sausages, and something herby, almost like stuffing. The door handle was just inches from his hand.

Another breath. _Really, _he thought, _the most ridiculous thing about this entire situation is sending a bunch of eleven year old kids to a pub. _He snorted and pulled open the door.

Groups of cloaked figures clustered down long wooden tables, perched on three-legged stools half-hiddenby the drapes of cloth. The colours astonished Cat – greens, blues, reds and golds that were more feeling and memory than colour. He looked at one women and saw the red of an over-ripened nectarine just bruised and wanted nothing more than to lay his hand on her shoulder to feel it, even taste it.

The air was thick with smoke that seemed to hang, curl and drift with purpose. Cat pulled his eyes away from all the wonder, and tried to walk towards the bar with confidence. Rows upon rows of dusty glasses hung, upside-down, above the bar, clinking quietly against one another. Behind the bar was dark – Cat couldn't tell how far back it went. He slid onto a stool and waited, drumming his fingers on the dark and peeling lacquer.

When he looked up from the bar top, a young man with no hair, no eyebrows, curling, white lashes and the raw boned cheeks of a colt was standing in front of him. His pale lips were quirked in a twisted, charming smile.

"T-Tom?" Cat stumbled over it, his voice barely louder than a whisper.

"That's me," said the man. "Though most folks call me Tom's boy. Most still think of my father as the one true Tom at the Cauldron. How can I help you today?"

"I'm, uh, I'm looking for Diagon Alley."

"Shopping for your first year at Hogwarts, I take it. Blimey, you kids are brave."

Cat gulped and looked down at the peeling lacquer.

"I do envy you, though. Can't imagine seeing it all for the first time." He stepped back into the gloom and returned with a glass full of chinking lime green ice cubes and thin slivers of lemon. "Get this in you first – a tonic for the nerves. What's your name?"

"Cat," said Cat.

"Not that fond of cats as a general rule." Tom's smile showed a few gleaming snaggle teeth. Cat's stomach was in knots and he had to keep reminding himself to breathe. "More of a bird man myself, honestly. But for you I'll make an exception.

"Come," he said, nudging the glass, "try it. I want your thoughts."

Cat took a tentative sip and tasted pear, citrus, fragrant tea leaves… He sighed, suddenly realising how tight he'd been holding his shoulders. He dared a glance up at Tom and told him, "It's good. Really good. Thank you."

He blushed suddenly, "But I – I don't have any money yet. I'm so sorry. I can pay you on my way out."

Tom barked a laugh. "It's my pleasure, little magician. Welcome to our world." He produced a long, slender stick of polished wood from one of the many pockets in his apron and gave it a sharp wave over Cat's shoulder. Empty cups came speeding from all over the room, clunking down onto the bar. One careened over the edge and smashed on the floor.

Tom laughed, "Smoothly done. There's always one wayward glass looking for an escape." He grinned at Cat's face, eyes wide, nose flared. Tom gave the stick another flourish and the cups sailed off into the shadows behind the bartender. Then he pulled out a bin and directed a short stream of glass pieces, shards and chips into it.

Cat took another gulp of the cold drink.

"Come," Tom said again, this time tilting his head down the length of the bar. "I'll show you the way through." Cat slipped off the stool and followed Tom as he walked towards the back of the pub. Exhausting the bar took longer than Cat expected.

Tom opened a hatch in the bar top and ushered Cat through a door into a tiny back alley. He produced a silver case from another apron pocket, flicked it open and slid out a slim purple cylinder. He put it between his lips, lit it with the stick of wood, somehow, and took a satisfied drag. He exhaled a series of smoke rings that seemed to briefly orbit each other.

"So," he looked at Cat, "notice anything unusual about this brick wall?"

Nonplussed, Cat peered at the brickwork in front of them. He couldn't see anything special about it, not even when he slid his eyes over it and watched the corners of his vision. He heard a slight hum or resonance in the air, but couldn't place it.

"Try running your hands over it," suggested Tom.

Feeling daft, Cat stepped forward and placed his hands on the wall. He leapt back. The whole surface had felt alive, hot under his hands.

Tom laughed. Cat reached for the wall again and held his palms against it. The wall sparked and thrummed against his skin, tracing arcane vectors of energy. He closed his eyes and followed the currents, sliding his palms along them under he felt he was cupping their epicentre, a point of convergence that blazed brighter than the rest.

He opened his eyes to inspect the particular brick his hands were pressed against. It looked like any other. A little pockmarked, reddish, a little dark moss in the mortar around its right and upper edges.

"Well done," said Tom, exhaling a blissful cloud of smoke. He reached over Cat and tapped the brick with his wooden stick. A wave of heat broke over them as the wall creaked and groaned, mortar softening and bricks grating over each other, shuffling, shuffling until an arch opened in front of them.

And through it, Cat saw a cobbled street full of people in robes and strange hats. He watched a line of cats slide along the gutter, trailing a hopping bird that looked like an amalgam of a heron and a toucan.

Tom made a tsk-ing noise and one of the cats looked up and sidled over. "Afternoon, Sally," Tom fed it a pinch of something. "Can you lead our young friend here over to Gringotts? This Cat's new to the Alley." The cat purred, slinking a figure of eight around Tom's legs, then Cat's.

"If he doesn't take too long in Gringotts, can you wait for him and take him over to Ollivander's? There's some leftover duck in it for you." The cat nipped at Cat's ankles and slid out onto the cobble stones, tail raised like a flag.

Cat had frozen at Tom's use of he/him pronouns. He reminded his heart to beat and drew a breath, not wanting to annoy Sally the cat with the broil of chaos and elation in his chest.

"Off you go, young Cat," said Tom. "Pleasure meeting you. Look forward to seeing you on your way out. Get Sally to fetch me if it gets overwhelming." He stubbed out his cigarette on the archway and put the butt in the rolled-up ends of his trousers. He fished in his pockets and pulled out a packet of Dreamies' cat treats. "Take these with you – cats are sticklers with tipping."

"Thanks, Tom," said Cat, staring at his collar, not brave enough for eye-contact. Sally chirruped and set off. Cat hurried after, keeping his eyes locked on her banner of a tail. The wall ground behind him as the bricks sealed off the Leaky Cauldron.

Cat tried to take deep, calming breaths as he followed Sally's sinuous path through the cobbled streets. He snuck glances at store-fronts until he almost lost Sally, distracted by innumerable wonders – amulets, creatures, contraptions, small explosions, a pyramid of orange fruits bigger than his head, trailing plants of which he'd never seen the like. Before long, they came to an enormous white stone building with broad marble steps leading up to a heavy-looking gold door. Sally leapt up the steps and threw herself down in front of the door, stretching a hind leg above her head and commencing a thorough tongue-bath of her hind quarters.

She looked down at Cat and chirruped impatiently, casting a glance towards the doors before resuming her wash. Cat rummaged in his pockets, casting Dreamies in front of her before pushing at the gold doors. They swung open soundlessly, opening onto a hall lit by giant chandeliers hanging from nothing.

Cat made his way to the front desk, where stood a creature with a monocle wedged between their aquiline nose and prominent brow. The hall seemed to eat up all sound, so his footsteps made only muted patter on the gleaming white floor. None-the-less, the creature looked up from its desk the moment Cat came near, skewering him with their gaze. The monocle magnified their one eye, which glittered wide and dark, iris shot with orange and yellow streaks radiating from enormous ink-black pupil. One of their silvery eyebrows was waxed across their forehead and into their hairline above their ear, Cat suspected to keep it out of the way of the monocle, as the other curled and stuck out, partially obscuring their other eye.

"Good afternoon," said Cat, struggling to hold their gaze.

"Good afternoon, young magician." Cat balked at the hint of distaste in their voice, but kept his face impassive. "How can I help you?"

Cat rummaged in his pocket. "I'm a new Hogwarts student – I was told to come here to pick up a stipend?" He voice trailed off querulously as he pulled the Hogwarts letter out of his pocket and fished out its three pages, spreading them out on the desk before the goblin (as he guessed this creature was). "The letter says just to, uh, present this page to one of the Gringotts goblins, but I have my passport if you need ID?"

The goblin laughed dryly. "We do, indeed, require identification. But we'll get to that." They slid the golden embossed letter out and inspected it, monocle changing hue and misting over as they ran their eyes over the page. "This all appears to be in order, Cat Wither." They delicately re-assembled and folded the letter and slid it back into the envelope. "Take this over to Balrid at withdrawals." They pointed towards a tiled alcove.

Cat murmured his thanks and took his letter. Balrid had a tiny pair of silver pince-nez perched on the end of their nose and gold lacquered nails that tapped over an elaborate, lightly steaming typewriter of some sort. They inspected Cat's letter carefully, running their nails across the gold emboss, and asked, "Are you familiar with wizard currency, young magician?"

"N-no," replied Cat, "I'm a – I'm from a – a Muggle family. Can you explain?"

"It's a little more complicated that the current decimal system Muggles use, I'm glad to say, although somewhat simpler than Latinate old money with that gloriously exasperating system of twelve pence to a shilling and twenty shillings to a pound, with farthings and ha'pennies and crowns thrown in to further muddle the mess." Balrid grinned widely. "Wizard currency consists of three denominations of coin.

"This," they held up a large gold disc, "is a Galleon, the largest denomination, minted from pure gold. The process is a trade secret, of course." They laid the coin down in front of Cat with a sharp click. "A single Galleon is equivalent to seventeen Sickles, minted from fine silver." They produced a smaller silver coin, held between their bulbous knuckles. They danced the coin between their knuckles, backwards, forwards, backwards, forwards, before placing it next to the gold coin – the Galleon, Cat reminded himself. "A single Sickles is equivalent to twenty-nine bronze Knuts," they continued, placing a small bronze coin, barely distinguishable from a Muggle penny except for its strange markings, next to the Galleon and Sickle.

"I'll spare you the math," said Balrid, baring their teeth. "That means 493 Knuts to a Galleon, roughly three Muggle kilograms weight in bronze. So don't ask me for your eighty-eight Galleons in bronze, in other words, unless you want to drag a very heavy sack behind you as you browse Diagon Alley's storefronts."

"Could I open a vault? The letter mentioned something about that being an option. I'm guessing eighty-eight gold pieces – Galleons, I mean – would be too much to carry around."

"The wisdom of wizards truly knows no bounds," sneered Balrid. "How much do you need today?"

"To be honest, I don't have a clue. I was hoping to buy a – a wand, and some books. I don't have time for anything else. But I don't know how much they cost."

"The going rate for a wand ranges between ten and fifty Galleons – along with the pesky matter of legal _status,_" Balrid hissed their esses. Cat frowned, nonplussed. Balrid continued, "But anything more than twenty and I would hazard you are being ripped off. Most Hogwarts required texts cost one to six Galleons."

"So," Cat said, fiercely estimating, curbing his impulse to buy everything in sight, "Twenty Galleons should be enough? I don't think I should spend more than that today."

"Make it twenty-three," said Balrid. "Prime numbers are far more trustworthy." They produced a floppy brown pouch and quickly stacked twenty-two gold coins next to the first Galleon. They plucked away the Sickle and Knut, and poured the gold into the pouch. "Gold alone should serve for this visit." They dipped their left thumbs into an inkwell and inscribed a short message on Cat's Gringotts letter. "On your return, present this to the goblin at the front desk to be issued your key. You will be shown to your vault, where your remaining sixty-five Galleons will await you in the dark. May I have your hand?"

Cat offered his right. Balrid inspected it cursorily. "Your left, please." Cat placed it in Balrid's cool palm and winced as Balrid suddenly pricked his middle finger, catching the blood that fell in a tiny silvered flask. "Necessary security procedure, I'm sorry to say," said Balrid, not looking sorry at all. They neatly stopped the flask and labelled it.

"That should be all," said Balrid, pushing the pouch and letter towards Cat.

Cat tried not to bleed on the envelope as he stuffed the pages back inside, murmured, "Thank you, Balrid," and left, dropping the pouch into his pocket where it chimed quietly.

He stepped back into the sun to find the cat licking the tufts between her toes. She chirruped at him, and he gave her a couple more treats.

"Where next, Sally?"

She slinked off down the step and he raced after her. They stopped outside of an ancient looking store front, with a sign reading _Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C. _and single wand on display, barely visible on its faded purple cushion through the dusty windows. The cat curled up in a patch of sunlight near the entrance.

Cat entered, setting off the peal of a bell, quickly muffled. He sneezed at the dust that seemed to gather around him, and at something more – the smell of magic, he guessed, a feeling of latent power that permeated the entire shop like dried herbs soon to be ground by pestle.

Someone shouted a "Hello!" from the back of the shop, and soon a smiling woman with a shock of short tawny hair, dressed mostly in brown leather, appeared behind the counter.

"Ah," she said, smiling broadly at Cat. "Your first wand, is it?"

"Yes," said Cat, "please."

"I'm Emily Ollivander," said Emily Ollivander.

"Cat Wither," said Cat.

"A pleasure. Let's have a look at you." She leapt around the counter and appraised Cat. She studied his brow, his ears, his posture, his knees, his feet, aided by a tape measure that seemed to have a mind of its own. Finally, she asked for his hands. He placed them in hers.

"Ah, the goblins already got to you," she said, inspecting his fingertips.

"That they did."

She curled up his hands into fists, tapped them together, and dropped them. "I'm going to fetch my top contenders. Feel free to run your hands along the shelves and see if anything leaps out at you in the meantime." She hurried off behind the counter.

Cat wandered up to one of the many dusty towering shelves and gently, ever-so-gently, placed his fingers on a box. It was like holding hands near embers – pleasant enough, but with the potential for third-degree burns. Gingerly, he began running his hands along the shelf, trying to make contact with a different box with each of his fingers. Some of the boxes seemed to have gathered static and shocked him the moment he made contact. Other seemed to hum under his hands. Some inched back into the shelves so his finger passed over it without making contact. He tried to calm his feelings of anxiety and hurt, to empty his mind, to focus on his fingertips and the sensation of contact with these dusty magical objects. He began to feel sorry for them, left to wait interminably on a shelf for a customer to find them, to choose them, to be chosen in turn.

A box jumped out from a shelf above his head and fell at his feet, its lid flying off to reveal a stick of burnished reddish wood.

"Ah," said Emily into Cat's ear, making him jump. "I was hoping that would happen." She stooped to pick up the box, leaving the lid behind. "Hmm," she muttered to the wand, "you seem very certain, don't you?" She turned to Cat, "Well – give it a wave!"

Cat reached out for the wand, which began to emit sparks the moment he touched it.

"No," said Emily, firmly, whisking the wand away. "Red Oak is far too over-eager for you, Cat. I can see why you made a good impression, though. Keep going," she nudged him towards the shelves.

He reached out for the shelves again, trying not to feel guilty about inadvertently rejecting that red oak wand. Soon he closed his eyes again and lost himself in the buzz, hum and flicker of all that magic under his hands. His attention began to be drawn to a point below his hands and he stooped to follow it, feeling its heat and potency long before his fingers neared the box. It felt both like and unlike the keystone in the Leaky Cauldron's alleyway – it had the same quality of centrality, of urgency to it, but it seemed to grow stronger and hotter the closer he came. It was something about him, his self that was activating all this magical potentiality starting to hum in his ears like pressure before a storm.

His hand touched the box and the pressure dropped. Cat slid the box out and opened it to find a long, pale wand with dark black buds somehow set into its surface. He looked up to see Emily smiling broadly.

"Ash, thirteen inches, phoenix core, with a nice bit of give to it. But, c'mon, give it a wave."

Cat suddenly felt very nervous. But the box nestled in his hand and his ears seemed to have re-synched with atmospheric pressure. He placed his index finger on the wand and felt something like the click of magnets, but in his wrist and chest and stomach. He slowly pulled it out of the box, which Emily took from him. As it settled into his grip, he began to feel a quivering resonance between his shoulder blades. He kept the wand very, very still.

"Be brave, Cat!" shouted Emily, as if from a great distance.

Cat traced a circle with the wand, as if it were a sparkler. It emitted a shower of blue and green sparks that fell to the floor like drifting feathers and blossomed into lavender buds once they touched the wooden boards. The lavender grew around his feet in a circle, burped a smoke ring that rose up around him and disappeared before it reached the ceiling, and when he looked down he found the lavender had withered and become desiccated.

Emily whooped victoriously, took the wand from his hand, placed it back in the box, scooped a handful of lavender from the floor and sprinkled it in too, and closed the lid. "Would have thought that one was a bit long for you, but it clearly knows you'll grow into it. That'll be ten Galleons, my dear. Thanks for the lovely show."

Cat looked up at her, dazed. "What _was_ that, Ms. Ollivander?"

"The wand very decidedly choosing you. Till death do you part, I would say. One of the nicest meetings of kindred powers I've seen yet."

Cat shook his head and began counting out Galleons. "Oh shit," he said, looking at Emily with wide eyes, "what's the time?"

Emily chuckled, dropping the Galleons in her pocket. "Just approaching six o'clock, I'd say."

"Damn!" he said. "Thanks for everything. I've got to run!"

He sprinted past Sally, praying he remembered the way. She looked at him thundering past, unimpressed, and slinked down an alleyway. When Cat got to the wall to the Leaky Cauldron, Tom was leaning against the opened arch with Sally twining around his legs.

"She was worried you were going to run out without tipping. Lost track of time?"

"Completely," said Cat, panting. "But I found my wand. Here," he said, pulling out the Dreamies, "Sally, I'm going to give you an entire handful of these, and hopefully Tom gives you that duck he promised." Sally purred noncommittally through her mouthful of treats. "Thanks for being patient with me.

"Tom, I really have to scarper, but I'll be back as soon as I can. Thanks for everything."

Tom watched Cat leg it through the bar, long box clasped tight in his fist. He smiled with all his teeth and gave Sally a scratch behind her ear. "C'mon, let's find you that duck."


	6. Chapter 6

Cat made it home a mere ten minutes before his dad, having dashed like mad through the Tube station, but had enough time to stash his wand in his room and throw sheet music around the tinny upright piano. When his dad walked in, he was working his way through the Anna Magdalena Bach notebook, willing his fingers to behave. _Just a normal day, _he repeated to himself, running through the story he'd feverishly concocted while sandwiched between suits on the Northern line. _I got home, I read some Neil Gaiman, fell asleep, and now I'm practising because I didn't have time at Hannah's. We played football and did laundry. No, I didn't drink at a magic pub, walk through a magic wall, follow a magic cat to a magic bank, meet some goblins, and get chosen by a magic wand. Where on earth did you get that idea?_

His dad was sighing and smelt of cigarette smoke, which meant he'd had a tough day.

"Should I put the kettle on, dad?" he yelled towards the door.

"No, Kitty, just keep playing. It sounds nice." He heard the water running and the click of the kettle starting. "Do you want a cuppa?"

"Please! Lots of milk, no sugar, yeah?" Cat gave up on the Anna Magdalena and went back to his standard, _Für Elise. _He'd learned to play it by ear a couple years ago, which was why he was saddled with all this practising nonsense now – his parents had decided he was some kind of musical prodigy and pushed him to take lessons.

His father came in with two mugs. "Ooo, this is my favourite. What's it called again?"

"Für Elise, dad. You've only heard like a million times."

"Shut up and keep playing, smarty pants," said his dad, ruffling Cat's hair. "Do you want teabag out?"

"Nope," said Cat. And then he started feeling a tickle in his fingers, as though the keys were playing him back, guiding him, prompting him. The tinkling notes felt like they were falling around him and rising and dropping again, etching intricate phrases in the air. Time reeled through him, neatly subdivided like ticker tape, its unravelling slowing and picking up in harmonious tandem with the subdued longing shivering through every chiming note.

_I know magic, _thought Cat, delirious with joy._ I've felt this before. Only I didn't know what I was feeling. _The piano keys were reaching out to his fingers like his wand had reached out a mere hour before, bridging that vast gap between inanimate object and animate creature with resonance and rapture, all sensory delight and mutual recognition of extraordinary power.

The piece came to an end and Cat looked up. His dad was staring into his cup of tea.

"Dad?" He looked up and Cat saw silvered tear tracks down his craggy cheeks and into his bristly upper lip. He took a big gulp of tea.

"That was lovely, Kitty. I don't know how you learned to play like that."

"Magic," said Cat, grinning.


	7. Chapter 7

Cat spent the next few weeks slipping away to Diagon Alley whenever his mum was working double shifts. He bought his robes, books, phials, telescope and scales, and arranged for his cauldron to be delivered to Hogwarts by owls, plural, not seeing any way of hauling an enormous pewter object through the Underground without attracting too much unwanted attention.

He kept his trips short and his eyes down, guarding his Galleons from all the wonders spilling out from shopfronts onto the alley's cobblestones. But five o'clock always found him in Flourish & Blotts, pulling book after books from the shelves.

For Louis, walking down Diagon Alley was like staring at the noonday sun. Constellations of suns. Each figure radiated like a dying fluorescent strip. Every storefront glowered with dissipating heat produced by its magical stock. The brightness of it all obscured every distinguishing detail. His vision teemed with fiery orbs, lines, and writing on the wall. Louis' head pounded, a migraine clenching its ham-fist around his brain stem.

"You realise this is torture for me," he remarked to the man striding next to him.

A dry laugh emanated from the upper portion of the man's aura, which flickered chaotically in the corner of Louis' eye. He would have struggled to look at his companion directly, whose energetic presence outshone surrounding sources like the moon does stars. Where others were strip lighting, this man was the lamp above the dentist's chair.

"Of course you do," Louis muttered. "Sadistic bastard."

"You realise I would give anything to see what you see."

"Only because you think you're monster enough to bear it, Ness."

"I know I am. Talent is wasted on the weak. Put your glasses on – I can't have you passing out."

Louis slid on a pair of dark, dark sunglasses, more goggles than glasses given the gleaming metal flanges that extended from the black lenses to the tips of his ears. The dark was sweet, although the throbbing in his occiput continued its sinister rhythm. He suppressed a shudder as his companion placed a hand on his elbow to guide him along the cobblestones.

The man's aura – his 'signal,' as Louis had dubbed the phenomenon (his right given no one else could see what he saw) – burnt around the edges of his glasses, lighting the negative space behind their lenses. He closed his eyes and still his lids were orange. They continued down the alley, Louis blind and his companion radiant.

Louis heard a hissing intake of breath at his side. He opened his eyes reflexively to see a white torus of such power he found himself blinking back tears. He was seeing it through his glasses, fixed in the upper right corner of his vision. Through his thrice-bewitched inch-thick obsidian lenses.

"It's the little witch," muttered the man at his elbow. "What a pleasant surprise." Louis shuddered at his companion's sibilance, almost missing his step. He couldn't take his eyes off the torus, almost a vortex, the way energy flooded round and round.

Cat was frozen in the doorway of Flourish & Blotts. He had felt Nessier's presence the moment he'd stepped out, that blanket of mutable grey, all concealed edges and power of suggestion. And there he was, not far down the cobbles, a neat silhouette with a flourish of pocket square, standing next to a hunched magnet of a man in dark glasses. He'd met Nessier's eyes and wanted to shrink back between the bookshelves. He forced himself to wait. _Behave_, he whispered to himself.

The grey man tugged Louis towards the glowing torus, and he tried not to trip.

"Good afternoon, Catherine," he heard Nessier pronounce in bland tone.

"Same to you, Mr. Nessier. Or do you prefer Prenderghastly?" Nessier's hand tightened on Louis' elbow – _he didn't expect this creature to know his name, _Louis realised.

"School shopping, I take it," said Nessier, looking fixedly at the parcel cradled in Cat's arms.

"Light reading," replied Cat. "Who's your friend?"

Nessier's hand was like a vice. But Louis extended his right hand towards the torus.

"I'm Louis Mark – pleased to meet you. I'm a colleague of Ness here."

A small, cool hand took his. "I'm Cat." The hand rested in his palm and he felt a strange easing spreading through his body, unlike anything he'd experienced before. It lapped around the fist clenching his brainstem and he felt the migraine release its hold with a snap so precise Louis worried it was audible. The blazing torus filling his vision cooled and faded, leaving him in the soft dark behind his lenses.

Louis straightened, patting Cat's hand and releasing it. "Forgive my rudeness," he said, sliding his glasses off his nose and pocketing them. "My eyes are sensitive."

Before him stood a child somewhere between innocence and adolescence ringed with cycling currents of magic and a dark indigo core of unquantifiable strength sitting behind their eyes and resting above their heart. Unlike the orbs of magical objects dissipating magical energy strewn over Diagon Alley, the child was not losing magic to their surroundings. It was returning to them, threading in and out, suffusing their whole body. And this Cat had done something to him – he could face this extraordinary use of magic without pain, even see its individual filaments and vectors of power.

Louis glanced at Nessier, avoiding his dangerous eyes, and noted the way his magic curled and reached and spiked out into his surroundings, prodding its way into passers-by and seeping around Louis himself. _He has been cloaking me somehow, _realised Louis. _But Cat noticed. _And he saw how Nessier's signal seemed to draw away from Cat's, as if repelled by its gyroscopic motion.

He met Cat's eyes carefully and said, "We must be on our way. But I'm glad to have met you, Cat." He inclined his head. "Thank you." He steered Nessier down the street and returned his glasses to his face to ruminate furiously in the dark.

Cat turned back into Flourish & Blotts.

"Mr. Foley, do you have anything on magical sensitivities?" he called towards the back room.

Mr. Foley emerged with a cup of tea. "I could swear you just left," he said, watching Cat quizzically over the glasses perched on the end of his nose.

"I, uh, remembered something I wanted to look into. But I do have to run. I just – if there's something you can find quickly… That'd be really helpful," Cat trailed off.

"Magical sensitivities, you say? Gods, child, you're worse than a Theory of Magic doctoral candidate." He put down his tea and turned to the shelves, running his hands over spines. "I should have something here… You play music, is that right?

Cat nodded.

"Then I have just the thing. Here." He pulled a slender book off the shelf. "Dragonetti's _The Spell and the Scale: Elemental Tones and the Timbre of Enchantment._ Be warned: it's denser than it looks. But I found it… well. Revolutionary."

Cat took the proffered book and was surprised by its weight.

"Take it, take it," said Mr. Foley as Cat began to root in his pockets. "See what sense you can make of it."

Cat stuttered out a thank you and ran for home.

Louis Mark and Malcolm Nessier silently continued along Diagon Alley, turning off down Knockturn. The storefronts began to crowd closer together, grow ramshackle, lean over the street. The sky above was thinned to a sliver by choked gutters and sliced by the occasional laundry line fluttering with cloaks and stockings like so many spectres hung out to dry.

Nessier stopped in front of a dark storefront, his boots crunching on glass shards. Every window pane was broken with shards filling the gutter and scattered across the stained wood floor inside.

Louis removed his glasses and gingerly followed Nessier inside. He trailed Nessier through the deserted shop floor and the warren of stock rooms, blinking at boxes of ensorcelled objects emanating weak pulses of energy. He followed, even though he knew exactly where to find the object they sought. He would have known even with his glasses on, his eyes squeezed shut.

It was dark, this object. Not merely dark, but negative. All the magical signals pointed towards it, flowing from Nessier, from the shop's nearly depleted stock, from his own feet. He looked at Nessier to find him grinning – he could feel it too, in his own way.

_He's letting it draw on his signal, _Louis realised with a shudder. _Letting it get a taste. _

As they continued, inching through the labyrinth of teetering shelves, Louis became aware of a buzz, so low as to be barely-audible. He felt it in his teeth.

They came to the last of the back rooms.

It was empty, save for a wooden pallet in the centre of the room, on which sat something cuboid draped with a rattan sack. The air tingled – Louis worked his jaw to clear the pressure in his ears.

Nessier drew the sack away ever-so-gently and let it slip to the concrete floor. This tender unveiling revealed a small crate covered in black sigils.

"The dock-workers union didn't like this one," muttered Nessier.

Nessier drew out his wand and tapped the crate's four corners. Thick nails pulled themselves from its wooden lid with creaking groans of protest. He slid his wand back into his jacket pocket, and lifted the lid away.

Inside sat a black anvil. It thrummed. Louis noticed the energetic vectors growing, moving faster and faster. Nessier stood transfixed.

"There you are," Nessier muttered. "I knew I'd find you."

Louis watched Nessier as the anvil pulled plumes and tendrils of magic from his form.

"Ness… Ness!" Louis whispered urgently. "You've got to stop it." Nessier continued to gaze at the anvil, rapt, enraptured, muttering under his breath.

Louis slammed the lid back down on the crate, hissing out the incantation to re-seal it. The air grew blessedly quiet as the magical currents began to slow.

Nessier's eyes flickered to his.

"So it begins."

Louis nodded.


End file.
